I was always told that actions speak louder than words, and Adriana proved it to me.

Yet there’s one thing that speaks even louder—

Blood

Blood in my heart, blood on my hands.

Blood never lies, never plays games.

Neither do I.

EXCERPT

Adriana flinched at the shrill scream of a motorcycle on the bend of the narrow waterfront road. A hand went to her heaving chest. She turned away from the road, and her troubled gaze snagged on mine. Her eyes widened, and my pulse gained speed.

Remember me, baby?

Her lips parted, she shook her head at me. A slight movement, but I caught it. Was she calling Game Over or was she warning me off? Maybe she hadn’t been some random girl bumping into me, flirting with me? Did the Alibertis know I was shadowing them and had sicced Adriana on me as a distraction?

Alessio prowled over, Luca tossed his cigarette, tracking to the other side of Adriana. Alessio’s dark eyes gleamed as he gave me a curt shake of his head. That Italian “Who the fuck are you, what the fuck is this?”

“Turo DeMarco.” I stretched out my hand to Alessio.

Alessio stared at my hand, an eyebrow raised. His full lips twisted into a smirk. Luca’s face was a mask.

“Adriana! Adrianaaaa!” shouted photographers from across the street. Her gaze darted to them but she immediately turned her back on them, pressing next to Alessio, her body bunching up. She was uncomfortable.

“Adriana!” the paps shouted. Her jaw set, her face tightened. Was she famous?

“Ignore them, Adri,” muttered Alessio, a hand at her back.

Just over her shoulder, a few yards beyond us on the main road, a mud splashed motorcycle with two helmeted figures in long sleeved jackets slowed down at the curve approaching the club’s entrance, weaving in front of the line of cars parked at the end of the walkway. They moved slowly, deftly, swiftly. They weren’t paparazzi. They weren’t club-goers. Not to this club.

Needles pricked up the back of my neck.

The rider in the back raised his arm, a semi-automatic in his grip.

I lunged at Adriana.

Crack. Crack.

Twisting her into me, I rolled onto the ground with her in my arms. I covered her, our bodies pressed together into the pavement. She clung to me.

Blat tat clip clip crack.

A high pitched scream ripped the air above us. Muffled moans. A tidal wave of shouts.

I pushed up, digging my fingers in her hair, cradling the side of her pale face. Anguish, terror. “Are you all right?” my voice as tense as my grip on her. “Adriana? Are you okay?”

“Yes! Yes—” She couldn’t catch her breath, her eyes opened widened even more, flitting to the side of my face. A hand reached out, touching the side of my stinging face. Blood stained her shaking fingers.

I touched the side of my face and found torn wet skin. Must have been from falling to the sidewalk.

Alessio, Luca over us. A flurry of Greek, Italian. I pulled her up and held onto her. Her arms were cold, so cold. Alessio, the bodyguard, an ashen Gennaro hanging behind him. Luca shouting, gesturing. My head reeled, was I swaying on my feet? I grabbed Alessio by the shirt.

“That motorcycle—” I gulped in air. “Did you see that motorcycle?”

“Si. I saw.” His gaze darted to the side of my face, and he winced. Alessio grabbed Adriana whose eyes stayed on me, not wanting to let go. Alessio took her and brushed past me, and I staggered.

A thick arm wrapped around me like a stiff belt, a hand at my chest, holding me up. Luca steered me toward a black Porsche Cayenne manned by a security guard who held the back door open. Alessio and Adriana climbed inside.

“Come.” Luca picked up his pace, leading me toward the car. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

Cat Porterwas born and raised in New York City, but also spent a few years in Europe, Texas and the suburbs along the way. As an introverted, only child, she had very big, but very secret dreams for herself. She graduated from Vassar College, was a struggling actress, an art gallery girl, special events planner, freelance writer, and had all sorts of other crazy jobs all hours of the day and night to help make those dreams come true. She has two children's books traditionally published under her maiden name. She now lives in Greece with her husband and three children, and freaks out regularly and still daydreams way too much. She is addicted to old movies, the History Channel, her iPad, her husband's homemade red wine, really dark chocolate, and her Nespresso coffee machine. Writing keeps her somewhat sane, extremely happy, and a productive member of society. If you enjoy character driven epic tales, her books are for you.